


The Forgery

by waffleguppies



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Shaiman/Shaiman & Wittman/Greig
Genre: Chocolate News, Completely Normal Ordinary Shopkeeper, Gen, Why yes I cribbed from Black Books I regret Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:47:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24196150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waffleguppies/pseuds/waffleguppies
Summary: With three Golden Tickets found, Charlie visits the candy shop and catches some breaking Chocolate News. Broadway version, a short sweet one-shot set between Queen of Pop and What Could Possibly Go Wrong.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	The Forgery

Charlie _meant_ to go straight home after school. Really, he always did. Especially on Wednesdays, since he knew his grandparents would be alone in their tiny house until his mom came back from her shift, and sometimes- despite her best efforts- that wouldn’t be until eight or nine o’clock.

Not least because there were still sixteen-days-seven-hours-and-twenty-three-minutes to go until his birthday, and with three Golden Tickets found already, the prospect of any news at all from the confectionery world was pure torture. Though magical thinking was hardly helpful here, it was still very much Charlie’s forte, and he felt almost as if, if he wasn’t there to witness any more finds, they couldn’t happen. Rather than jinx himself with another chance gone, he meant to stay well away from any Chocolate News.

He meant to, but it wasn’t quite that simple. Not when the candy shop at the end of the street glowed like a beacon in the early winter twilight, the window an absolute riot of inviting color. Even if he could have walked past without looking, the jangle of the shop bell as kids and adults passed in and out was like an urgent alarm chasing him down the street, nagging that he surely wasn’t going to just walk by today, was he? Was he?

He wasn’t. He _couldn’t._ Even if it was just for a little bit, he had to climb the one worn step and push through the door into a small pocket of paradise, the warmth and the noise of busy shoppers and the sweet scents of almost every kind of Wonka candy that existed, mingled together but still distinguishable if he turned his keen nose to the task. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t buy a thing. The shop was too busy for anyone to notice one little boy who never picked anything up or approached the tall counter. Charlie could tuck himself out of the way on the bottom step of the shop’s central staircase- a cluttered, jar-lined structure, thin and twisty as an ancient spine- and people-watch, and daydream to his heart’s content.

Today was as busy as ever. The shop’s promising first few days had turned into an utter deluge of custom as soon as Mr. Wonka had announced his contest. People hurried in and swarmed around the shelves and pushed and talked and laughed and queued, the cash-register never stopped ringing, and although the old TV set in the corner was always on, Charlie could barely hear it and certainly couldn’t see it through the general mob. Of course, Charlie didn’t mind at all- this suited him and his resolution just fine.

While he wondered exactly how many Wonka bars the shop sold a day, and how its deliveries were made, and a million other such questions, while he warmed his chilly fingers and breathed in the sugary air as if he could eat it, Charlie couldn’t have known that his little bubble of deliberate ignorance was headed straight for the sharp pin of reality.

_“HOLD IT!”_

The shop fell silent. The shoppers looked at each other, startled, and nobody seemed entirely sure of who had spoken- or rather, yelled at the top of their voice. In the sudden hush, however, the sound of the TV’s strident breaking jingle was as clear as a bell.

_“...we can only tell you the rumors are true, folks, we have indeed been receiving unverified reports that_ _we might just have a sugar-coated scandal on our hands_ _. Details are still coming in, so stay tuned after the break for a special bulletin...”_

The throng of customers started to chatter excitedly amongst themselves as the news spread through the shop like wildfire. Charlie heard fragments, even as he was pulling his woolly hat over his ears in a half-hearted attempt to block it all out.

“-another ticket? Already?”

“I bet it’s in France-”

“-no, no, Norway, they’re all mad for chocolate up there-”

“Australia, they’ve actually proved it’s one per continent-”

“Oh, come on, that’s just a wild theory, I heard it’s all being done by demographics-”

“Attention, everyone!” yelled the first yeller, again, only this time their voice was nearly right in Charlie’s ear. He realised with a start that it was the shopkeeper himself, but now he had left the counter and crossed to the staircase. Charlie just had time to duck before the man hopped right over his head to the step above, turning to address the crowd.

“I regret to inform you all that we’re closing early today. Everyone please vacate the premises. Thank you.”

And, with that, he started closing the shop. Charlie had never seen quite such a vehement, steamrollerish way of going about it. Most of the assembled shoppers barely had time to put down the things they hadn’t bought and grab the things they had before they found themselves out in the street. The shopkeeper herded the remaining patrons around the shelves and out the door with sweeps of his arms as if he was driving a flock of reluctant geese. As he passed, he seized a broom from a hook on the wall, and when he turned on the few people who were lingering, trying to ignore him, he actually shooed them out with the bristly end, prodding away at ankles and behinds while keeping up a very civil flow of goodbyes and absolutely ignoring any argument.

“Madam, your change- sir, your hat- goodbye- thank you- delighted- yes, time to go home, everyone out, come on, no time to dilly-dally- oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir, was that your foot? What were you thinking, leaving it there? Yes, we’re closed, _fermé, geschlossen,_ leave, go, bye-bye, out, out, out, out, _out._ Goodbye,” he said, politely, to the very last lingerer, a woman with a very nice handbag and a rather aggressive haircut, who was still trying to protest as she was backed towards the door.

“But it’s only half-past three!”

“True,” said the shopkeeper, “but it’s my shop. Goodbye.”

“This is terrible customer service!”

“It absolutely is,” agreed the shopkeeper, “and if I were you, I’d hurry home as soon as I possibly could and write me a really nasty Yelp review. That’ll definitely show me. Toodles!” At which, he shut the door in her face, turned the sign to CLOSED, and pulled down the blind for good measure.

He sighed a sigh that sounded like it came from the pit of his soul and turned back into the shop, where he found himself looking down at Charlie, who had been swept into a corner by the whirlwind of exodus and hadn’t even had the chance to get near the exit, let alone leave.

“Agh! Oh. It’s you.”

“Sorry, sir,” said Charlie, hurriedly looping the endless coils of his scarf round his neck as he headed for the door. “I’m just going.”

“Well, wait, don’t you want to see the news?”

Charlie stopped, despite himself. The doorknob was icy cold in his hand. “No...” he said, reluctantly. “I mean, yes, I do, but- really, I don’t. Or maybe I really do- oh, I don’t know!”

“That’s the thing I like about you, kid,” said the shopkeeper, drily, hooking his broom back up on the wall. “You don’t vacillate.”

Charlie was about to protest that this wasn’t true- that he’d had all his shots- but the shopkeeper had already headed off to collect the old TV, which lived on a wobbly wheeled trolley. He trundled it into clear view and parked it near the stairs, just as the ads ended and the familiar bulletin logo flashed up on the screen.

_“Chocolate News!”_

“Bucket- look!” called the shopkeeper, perching himself comfortably on his own counter. Charlie, who had to admit that he really couldn’t _not_ look, now it was right in front of him, slowly let go of the doorknob and trooped glumly back to sit on his favorite step.

_“Jerry, I’m in Boston, where here at the historic Massachusetts Institute of Technology, a candy-covered crime has come to light. Just this morning, a whistleblower within the School of Analytical Sciences called police attention to a plot to forge one of Wonka’s coveted Golden Tickets right here on campus, and we’ve been told several key members of the faculty as well as the Dean may be implicated. I have here with me now Veranda Kessleburg, a leading expert in forensic document examination. Veranda, can you tell us all how to steer clear of these tricky ticket fabrications?”_

“That’s terrible!” Charlie was utterly indignant, hopping off the step and pacing anxiously in a little circle, nearly tripping over the tail of his own unravelling scarf. “How’s anyone supposed to know if the last two tickets are real, if people can just _fake_ them?”

“Can’t be done,” said the shopkeeper, complacently. He had hooked a handful of crumpled toffee wrappers from a nearby shelf, and was busy folding one into a small origami bird. “If this Wonka’s as brilliant as everyone says he is, he’ll have loaded those tickets with anti-counterfeit measures out the wazoo. Microprinting, watermarks, trace cacao powder in the Merrill-Crowe process, the works.”

“You really think so?”

“Trust me. There’s only two tickets left out there, and they both have the authentic Wonka seal of approval.” The shopkeeper had just finished folding a second paper bird, and as he spoke he idly lined them up and flicked them both from the countertop, one after the other. One bounced off the TV screen with a glassy little _dink._ The second hit Charlie in the ear.

“Ouch!”

“Just waiting for the last two deserving winners. I mean, you saw little miss whatsername- Beauregarde- not to mention that strident young Salt girl- it can only be up from here, eh, Bucket?”

“I suppose,” said Charlie, doubtfully. His Grandpa George had had a lot to say about the second Golden Ticket winner, most of it a lot stronger than ‘strident.’ The general consensus amongst the four old people had been that commandeering an entire factory to shell thousands of Wonka bars an hour like so many peanuts was the absolute definition of stretching the rules, and also that a lifetime’s supply of candy wouldn’t benefit Veruca Salt nearly as much as a good clip round the earhole.

“No ‘suppose’ about it. Oh, would you look at that, almost dark out already- hadn’t you better be running along?” The shopkeeper slid from his perch on the counter, brushing down his crumpled check shop-coat, and glanced through the shop window’s crowded ranks of sweets, up at the grand pale face of the Wonka Factory clock in the distance. He blinked, squinting irritably at it over his thick glasses.

“How does anyone read that damn thing from this side?”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it, sir.” said Charlie, busily de-tangling his scarf for the second time. “It’s the way it moves backwards that muddles most people.”

“Widdershins.”

“What?”

“Widdershins,” repeated the shopkeeper, “anti-clockwise, not backwards, and anyway, it entirely depends on where you’re standing- you know what, never mind.” He snapped off the TV and waved a lanky arm at the door, already striding away around the business side of the counter. “Scoot, c’mon, some of us have jobs, we can’t afford to just stand round talking temporal terminology with ten-year-olds.”

Charlie scooted. By the door, he paused and looked back.

“Mister?”

“Hmph,” huffed the shopkeeper, his head in the cash-register.

“What made you want to open a candy store?”

“The profit margins,” the shopkeeper answered, shortly, riffling through receipts. “A three-hundred-percent markup on Triple-Dazzle-Caramel-Snazzles? Talk about more money than sense.”

Charlie hesitated. He’d been wanting to ask this particular question for a while, and this didn’t exactly feel like a satisfying answer. Like any ordinary, completely chocolate-obsessed child, Charlie would happily have given at least two limbs to run a candy shop (provided that it left enough free time for inventing, of course.) At his heart, he didn’t want to believe that anyone- even the cranky, jaded adult currently stabbing at his cash-register with a single finger, jabbing each key as if it had personally called him a rude name- could make a living like this every day and not absolutely love it. He just didn’t want to think it was possible.

“I guess what I meant is… is it fun?”

There was a short jangling crash as the shopkeeper rolled the till drawer abruptly shut. He was looking through the window again, at the great nonsensical clock-face that stood guard over the town.

“It can be,” he said, at last.

For a few moments, he didn’t move. Then, all of a sudden, he shook himself, and blinked back into the room. “Now, hop it, Bucket, before your mother sends out a search-party.”

Charlie nodded and opened the door, his breath misting immediately into a cloud in the nippy evening air.

“Night, sir.”

The shopkeeper waved his hand in a salute somewhere between farewell and dismissal, and Charlie let himself out onto the street.


End file.
